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Like so many practices, Aikido contains many levels of understanding. Let us take the phrase Masakatsu Agatsu  — “true victory is victory over oneself” and examine it on three different levels. A basic level of understanding When we first encounter the phrase “true victory is victory over oneself”, it is often understood in a very practical way. We may interpret it as learning to regulate our thoughts and desires, letting go of bad habits and cultivating healthier ones. It can also point to becoming more mindful of the words we speak, our impact on others, and the quality of our relationships. From this perspective, Aikido fits neatly into everyday self-improvement. It becomes a form of physical exercise, a way of learning a new skill, and an opportunity to be part of a community of friends who share a common practice. A slightly deeper level of understanding Looking with greater depth, Masakatsu Agatsu begins to reveal itself as a true commitment to practice. The dojo is no longer just a place to train the body, but a place to polish the spirit. Victory over oneself comes to mean staying dedicated even when training becomes difficult, repetitive, or frustrating. No matter what obstacles life throws up, you continue to turn up and train. I’ve noticed how many people stop coming when life gets tough—whether through work pressures or family problems. I believe that the consistency of turning up, especially when life feels difficult, is what supports us in the long run. This level of understanding is also a perfectly adequate one, and has real merit. Simply continuing to show up, week after week, is no small achievement. Most people give up once the initial enthusiasm fades or progress appears to slow, and very few truly go the distance. The hope is that the perseverance we cultivate in the dojo begins to ripple out into our daily lives, making us more resilient, grounded, and able to meet life with the same steady commitment. The deepest level of understanding At the most profound level, true victory is not victory over the self. Instead, Aikido becomes a means of recognising that there is no separate self to overcome. From this perspective, it might be more accurate to say “true victory is the recognition of no self" Language, of course, is a poor tool for expressing this level of understanding. Words inevitably fall short of describing the essence of who we are. The most accurate understanding would be to remain silent and simply abide in presence. Shedding the sense of “I” is the ultimate aim of Aikido. Here we find the Art of Aikido now embodies the Art of Peace — what a Buddhist might call the end of suffering, or what a Christian might call God. In truth, all genuine arts and spiritual paths lead to the same point of non duality, each expressing the same thing in their own way. Now our practice truly begins.

Aikido & Non-Duality As my Aikido practice has deepened, I’ve had time to reflect on the initial thoughts and preconceptions that first drew me to the art. When I started, I immersed myself in reading about O’Sensei and watching as many videos of him as I could find. I noticed something striking - O’Sensei moved differently to all of his students, he seemed to embody something beyond form and technique. I think the photo below embodies this beautifully. My understanding is that O’Sensei never spoke of Aikido in terms of form or self-defence; for him, it was something far more profound. Over time, I’ve come to realise that Aikido is the study of the self. But to understand it fully, we have to stop looking outward - seeing Aikido as a form, a technique, or a method to achieve something—and instead turn our attention inward, toward the fundamental question: Who am I?   Along my journey, I’ve met others on the same path and noticed that, despite outward differences in practice—whether Reiki, Yoga, Zazen, or playing a musical instrument—all the arts share a common purpose: to realise our true nature. At its deepest level, every sincere practice leads to the same realisation, like different paths converging at the peak of a mountain. I first glimpsed this truth when I let go of my agenda to achieve the next Aikido grade. Then I realised that to try and “Aikido” someone is dualistic in its nature. I eventually found myself showing up to practice with no intention other than to practice. By committing to this kind of practice, we give ourselves the opportunity to shed the illusion of duality and experience the sense of unity that arises in the moment. At first, this is a fleeting feeling, but with regular training, I’m learning to return to this space again and again. Over time, I believe that this experience of oneness will begin to spill over beyond the dojo, shaping everyday life. A close friend introduced me to the teachings of Sri Ramana Maharshi: https://www.gururamana.org I have also listened to the beautiful talks of Rupert Spira, whose words resonate with me profoundly. https://rupertspira.com Spira articulates the direct path with such clarity and highlights just how simple non-duality is. Yet despite its simple nature, as I’ve found, it is not always easy to embody in every moment, which is why I feel the need to continue to practicing daily as Aikido and the arts are lifelong pursuits. I feel inspired to keep practicing - not to attain something, but to let go of the veil of duality. In that letting go, we create space to experience life with greater joy and peace.

A Journey Into Aikido: From Health Goals To Lifelong Practice Upon turning 30, I realised that I was at the point in my life where I needed to take control of my health. I didn’t want to reach 40 or 50 and find myself so unhealthy that it affected my quality of life. I felt that if I made changes now, perhaps I could maintain the good health that I had so far taken for granted. I had never been particularly sporty, but I remembered enjoying martial arts as a child. I briefly tried Judo when I was young but didn’t stick with it. Later, I practised Karate throughout most of secondary school. It was immensely enjoyable and even got me out of a few scrapes with bullies. In the lead-up to my 30th birthday, I found myself in a job I didn’t particularly enjoy, with very little focus on anything I felt passionate about. Reflecting on how much martial arts had meant to me in my youth, I decided to revisit it as a possible route to a healthier and more fulfilling life. As I began to research, I quickly realised that while many martial arts are impressive, they can also be punishing on the body. My prime objective was to be healthy at 40—not nursing avoidable injuries as I got older. On a whim, I vividly remember typing "peaceful martial art" into Google and to my complete surprise Aikido appeared. I was immediately captivated. Its gracefulness combined with the fact that many practitioners continued well into their later years suggested to me that it could improve my health rather than damage it. It seemed to tick all the boxes and I felt compelled to see if anyone practiced it near by.   Finding My Dojo I was surprised to find several dojos close to home. Without overthinking it, I messaged one of them and was invited to their next session. I was so excited—I couldn’t wait! I went to my local club (Congleton) for my first practice and I was immediately struck with how the Sensei (Simon) was trying to convey something special. It was clear that he was on his own journey of exploration and was a dedicated student himself. He admitted to feeling like he was only just beginning to find something deeper in his own practice and over time his practice and the whole dojo has continued to grow together. A link to Congleton Aikido Club: http://congletonaikido.com I often travel a lot with work. After a couple of years of Aikido practice, I started taking my gi with me and visited dojos wherever I went. I noticed that many clubs I trained at focused heavily on gradings, rigid forms and the use of force—almost like a conveyor belt system for earning rank. The practice that I witnessed in many places felt shallow in comparison to how I had been training at home and I often came away pondering if what I had seen at other dojo's was really the path that O'Sensei intended for us to follow. In contrast, my Sensei focused on exploring the essence of Aiki. His philosophy valued the quality and sincerity of our practice far more than focusing on the next grading or the colour of the belt around your waist. Compared to some places, Congleton Aikido club has only ever attracted a small number of Aikidoka but what we lack in numbers, we make up for in an exceptionally high level of practice. The Journey Over the Goal Over time, Aikido became part of my weekly routine. Even as life in my 30s grew more demanding with the arrival of two wonderful children and increasing work responsibilities, I stayed committed to training. No matter how tired I felt, I always showed up. The consistency of regular practice had a profound impact on my life. I gained a circle of supportive friends and found a lifelong study that I can’t imagine ever giving up. Shortly after my 40th birthday, I achieved my black belt. Ironically, the most significant thing I gained was losing the desire to achieve it. Ten years ago, I saw the black belt as the ultimate goal—a symbol of status that couldn’t be bought. Over time, my perspective changed. I realised I wasn’t turning up every week to gain something but rather to lose something: my ego. The desire for a black belt faded as I became immersed in the training. Chasing a belt was, in hindsight, a distraction. I had to let go of that desire entirely and I’ve come to see the black belt as a paradox: only by shedding the need to achieve it can you truly earn it. Beyond the Dojo Aikido has profoundly influenced my outlook on life. The lessons I’ve learnt on the mat are filtering into my everyday perspective of who I am and how I experience the world around me. I’m deeply grateful for the opportunity to train every week with such a supportive group of friends. Recently, I’ve felt a recurring desire to journal my experiences. I can't say why I want to do it, just that I do want to do it. I don’t have any expectations that anyone will read this but I’m always open to connecting with like minded people.

The Posture Of Presence Over the last year, I’ve been thinking about how my posture affects my mental focus — and how something so simple can bring me back to a more centred feeling. I first noticed this in my Aikido practice. If I lean too far forwards, it not only affects my balance but also reveals something subtle inside — an intention to throw my partner from a dualistic state of me versus you , rather than moving as one. When intention becomes too strong, I tip forward mentally and physically. My partner can sense this imbalance and can reverse the technique simply by remaining centred. Their stability, both physical and mental, exposes my lack of it. Once I realised how much posture affected my training, I started experimenting with it in everyday life. Just a simple practice of maintaining balance in each moment. What I immediately found is that posture keeps me present. I now notice that the smallest details of daily life feel joyful in a way I hadn’t experienced before. It’s something beyond happiness — a love that arises from simply being here. If I catch myself rushing because I feel like I want to be somewhere else, I simply regain my posture and this brings me back to the present moment because the truth I’ve learnt is that I can’t be anywhere else but here. I have no idea how or why it works, but it seems to work beautifully. My curiosity led me to look into posture more deeply, to see if others had noticed the same effect. It turns out I wasn’t imagining it — both traditional practices and modern research show that posture has a surprisingly powerful influence on attention, mood, and presence. Zen practitioners have focused on posture for centuries. Sitting upright, balancing the spine and head, and letting the body settle naturally creates a quiet, alert awareness. When the body slumps, the mind dulls. When the body strains, the mind agitates. The sweet spot is effortless balance. Nondual practice echoes the same idea. Leaning forwards reflects grasping. Leaning back expresses avoidance. Collapsing downward shows resignation. A centred posture, by contrast, communicates openness and non-resistance. It allows us to meet the moment without pushing or pulling. Science now confirms what these traditions have long known. Balanced posture supports clearer thinking, reduces stress, and improves mood. When the body settles, the nervous system calms — and awareness stabilises. Across traditions, posture isn’t just how we hold the body — it’s how we hold the moment. When we align physically, something inside aligns too. Breath deepens, thoughts soften, and we stop resisting reality. This simple practice of returning to posture brings clarity, patience, and a joy that arises for no reason at all. Perhaps posture is more than how we stand or sit. Perhaps it’s how we meet the world.

The Most Deflating Moment Of My Aikido Life When I look back on my Aikido journey, one moment stands out — and not for the reasons you might expect. It wasn’t a triumph, a breakthrough, or a beautiful technique. It was the moment I passed my black belt grading. After a long week of training at summer school, my body was broken. My knee had gone completely, strapped up and aching with every movement. I was in so much pain for my grading and adding to my discomfort was my Uke who was unforgiving. The judging panel expect a very specific Hombu style that isn’t my thing at all and because of all the reasons above, I was certain that I was going to fail the test. When they called my name and told me I had passed, I was stunned. Relief, disbelief… but not joy. We all went to the canteen afterwards for lunch. Friends, senpai, sensei — everyone congratulated me. And yet, as they talked and laughed over lunch, I felt utterly deflated. An overwhelming emptiness settled in. I had reached the milestone I thought I wanted, the one I had trained for so long and visualised so often — and yet inside, I felt nothing at all. Beyond the Belt That moment taught me something profound: the belt itself meant nothing. Yes, it represented ten years of practice, commitment, and consistency. But the identity of “black belt” didn’t change me. It didn’t define who I was. And it made me wonder — how many other labels do I think of as “me”? Husband Father Son Musician Drummer Teacher Black belt If I lost them all tomorrow, would I stop being who I truly am? The answer is whilt labels might be useful in conversation, they never touch the essence of who we are. If you were to turn your attention inward and ask with complete honesty: Who am I? What you discover is that you are nothing other than awareness itself. All the labels that you thought defined you are only costumes layered on top, masking the simplicity of our true nature. The Paradox of Grading This led me to question why Aikido has grades at all? From white belt to black belt, it’s a dualistic system. It divides. The very structure implies progress comes through accumulating achievement, status, or rank — when in truth, the practice is about doing the opposite: stripping away the layers we’ve built around ourselves. O’Sensei’s words point again and again beyond technique, beyond form, beyond winning and losing. He showed no interest in grades or status. Yet, while he was still alive, his son began formalising Aikido into ranks, techniques, and syllabus. Did O’Sensei feel his son was missing the point? Did it trouble him? Or was his realisation so deep that he simply let such thoughts pass, continuing his own practice without concern that many misunderstood him? Closing Passing shodan was the most deflating moment of my Aikido life — and also the most freeing. In that very moment of emptiness I saw that the belt was never the goal. The real achievement was to lose the desire to identify as it. The reason why I continue to train is to continually practise and experience being conscious in the present moment. Anything else is merely an illusion that we can still experience, just no longer attached to. If we continually practise this, we begin to notice the subtle ways in which the mind tries to cling, to label, to own. We see how tension arises from the very thought of becoming something, rather than simply being. In time, the dojo becomes a mirror, reflecting not technique but awareness. Each movement reveals the state of one’s mind; each interaction shows the quality of one’s presence. Progress is no longer measured in rank, but in the quiet softening of the ego — the gentle dissolving of resistance. And eventually, training ceases to be something we do. It becomes something we are. A quiet, living expression of harmony in motion.

Aikido – Does It Work On The Streetz?! There’s an endless debate online about whether Aikido is “effective.” People continually ask: Does it work on the streets? Could it hold up in a real fight? I sometimes wonder if the question itself needs reframing. Instead of asking whether it works in a fight, perhaps we should ask: “Can I bring my Aikido practice into daily life?” And, most importantly: “Can I live in a way where conflict no longer arises?” I believe the essence of Aikido lies in carrying lessons from the mat into every moment. O’Sensei once said: “Aiki is not a technique to fight with or defeat an enemy. It is the way to reconcile the world and make human beings one family.” It is this perspective that I wish to explore further. ⸻ The Cycle of Stress and Release For years, when I arrived at the dojo, I carried the week’s tension with me: work pressures, family demands, minor frustrations. For two hours, I would sweat, breathe, and gradually let it go. The day after practice, I would feel calm, almost untouchable. But as the week went on, the tension would slowly build again, until the next class, when the cycle repeated itself over and over. It gradually became clear that one or two classes a week weren’t enough. If I wanted lasting peace, I had to embody Aiki principles beyond the dojo. ⸻ What Are We Really Practising? Aikido is not a catalogue of techniques; it’s a way of being — often called moving Zen . In the dojo, we learn that conflict doesn’t start outside of us. Other people’s actions aren’t the real issue; our biggest obstacle is learning to overcome ourselves. Training is simply holding up a mirror for our partner, giving them the chance to dissolve their own tension. What follows may look like a throw or some recognisable technique if you want to label it that way, but at its core it’s about releasing the conflict within. For me, this means living in awareness as awareness itself. Thoughts and feelings are not inherently “mine”; suffering begins when the mind clings to them. ⸻ Daily Practice On a physical level, Aiki principles guide movement: centred motion; good posture; awareness of tension; and the cultivation of no-mind. To integrate this off the mat, I maintain a daily routine: Tai sabaki exercises Torifune and Futitama Simple Bokken cuts Zazen. Each movement is an extension of meditation — posture, breath, and the gentle release of thought. The body and mind move together as one. Beyond solo ‘garden’ practice, I try to move steadily and gracefully throughout the day, treating each moment as an opportunity to embody Aiki. Of course, I am far from a master. I can still get grumpy, low, or impatient without noticing it but Aikido has taught me that frustration is merely a reflection of an unsettled mind. The practice is noticing it and returning to calmness — repeatedly, patiently, with awareness. ⸻ A Note on Enlightenment I suspect few experience sudden, dramatic “ta-da!” enlightenment. For most of us, it is a gradual unveiling: peeling back layers through diligent practice to reveal our true selves — the selves we have always been. Over time, fewer things will disturb the mind. And on the ocassion that we become involved in our thoughts, we can learn to to take a step back and let it pass. ⸻ So… Does It Work on the Streetz? Yes — but not as a technique to pull out in a dark alley. Aikido works because we learn to dissolve conflict within before it spreads outward. The ultimate question isn’t whether Aikido works on the street, but whether we are genuinely practising at all — in every breath, every step, every interaction. And when we do, we find that the street, the home, the office, and the everyday moments themselves become the dojo. Perhaps a perfect marker of progress is when the question, “Does Aikido work?” quietly fades.

Beyond the Cut: What Weapons Practice Really Teaches Us When I first started Aikido, I was drawn to the idea of training with weapons. The thought of owning my own Japanese samurai sword and being someone who could swoosh it around looking like a hard nut – I’m embarrassed to say – had a certain appeal. As my understanding of Aikido’s principles developed, I came to see weapons practice as a tool to help refine my form and apply the movements to taijutsu  (empty-handed practice). And in many ways, that’s exactly how it works for lots of people. I still hope that, in time, my movements will become more refined – whether I’m holding a bokken  or simply working with a partner, empty-handed. But recently, something else has started to become clear. I’ve begun to see the bokken  as a mirror of our own understanding. It reflects not just technique, but who we are in that very moment. Rather than trying to cut an opponent, I’m realising that the real practice is moving within myself – not overreaching, staying balanced, and keeping a calm mind rooted in the present. I’ve noticed that the moment I imagine cutting ‘someone’, everything changes. I lose the calmness, the sense of connection, and the awareness of my own centre. I’ve realised I need to forget the bokken  is even there, and instead move my whole self. With a bokken , it’s easier to feel whether everything is moving together as one, as it becomes simply an extension of yourself – a tool to help you realise this. And one of the beautiful things about weapons practice is that, like tai sabaki  and zazen , it’s something you can do entirely on your own. You don’t need a partner or a mat – just a bit of space and presence. It allows for consistent, personal exploration – a way to keep returning to the path, any time, even outside the dojo.